Remembrance in Fragments
by Official .the. Blah
Summary: "Tell me, mon petite Giry: how does it feel to lose your talent?" "S'il vous plait...let go...I...can't breathe..." "I'm not asking you to breathe, Marguerite...I'm asking you to dance." Meg suffers a concussion and cannot remember her ballet. The Phantom himself helps her reach into the vastness of her mind to reclaim her lost talent, finding a friend in someone least expected.
1. Chapter 1

**_A/N_**_:_Ŏla! This story was originally on Wattpad, but since nobody was reading it, I decided to move it here. It is actually fanfiction, so it makes more sense to put it here than on Wattpad. These events are set a few months before the events in ALW's 2004 movie, with a slight plot-change right at the end. Don't forget to review!

So sudden was the accident, so sudden that the grace of one of the most delicate ballerinas was stomped out by the sheer force of gravity...so sudden was she so silent. Marguerite Giry was now being hurtled towards the closest clinic in Paris in the most unconscious of states, barley able to listen to the quiet pleas her Maman was whispering to her bleeding face, her senses barley registering the feel of a motherly grasp over the pain emitted from the twisted and mangled flesh and bone beneath her leaking skin.

Jolt after painful jolt, the coach driver was almost certain that his panicked driving skills would turn the Hospital-marked carriage into a hearse and was preparing himself for a line of curses from the close-to-bereft mother. The horse gave a pained whinie as he pulled on the strained reins to halt the steed at the entrance to the _Clinique de Paris_, and the driver found himself panting and unable to speak to the approaching nurses; he pointed to the coach as a wide-eyed Madame Giry thrust the door open and commanded the nurses to take Meg's body and heal it.

Not too far away, in the foundations of the Opéra Populaire, the Phantom himself circled the tied up Prop Manager who was desperately crying out, "Accident! I swear, it was an accident!" And no doubt that it was; it was clear that the rope supporting the concrete angel was tired and withered with careless usage, but such mismanagement would not go unpunished in HIS Opéra House. So swiftly was the finger taken off that the manager almost forgot to scream...almost.

One and a half daunting weeks later, the ballet troupe held their breath as a battered but bandaged Meg and her mother once again entered the halls of the Opéra. The Madame hissed away those who approached their friend to embrace and converse with her on the strict instruction of the doctor that although the physical injuries were almost completely healed, the unfortunate injury her mind sustained would need time to heal. Yes, their dear Meg had suffered a concussion, and a large one at that according to the Medics. Even the slightest bit of social pressure on her damaged neural passageways could result in devastating consequence.

Slowly, noticeably surrounded by her unremembered friends, a trans-like Meg journeyed with her mother to her dorm and to her bed where she almost instantly fell asleep. Antoinette stole one last glance at her sleeping offspring before she returned to her group of adoptive daughters to make up for nearly two weeks worth of training missed, switching her demeanor from that of motherly worry to the strict persona of the ballet concierge: Madame Giry.

Unbeknownst to her, while she returned to her rats to make up for 10 days missed of teaching, the Phantom manoeuvred himself through rafters to reach the ballet dormitories to where the sleeping mademoiselle lay. He wandered what he was doing there in daylight, silently staring at her from the edge of the bed; she was his unknowing love's best friend and only caring acquaintance's daughter, but it wasn't as if he owed her anything. For minutes he stared, studying her uncomfortably sleeping features before he shook his head, deposited his letter and left silently.

Meg woke with a sweat developing on her cramped chest and looked around. Although it was dark, she could still hear the pounding of her mother's cane on the wooden stage and the shrill voice of the leaving Carlotta: she was back at the _Populaire_. However, panic started to rise in her throat as she battled for recollection of how she got from dancing with her own perfection on the stage (which felt like an eternity ago) to sleeping in her bed. _Jhesus Maria, has my mind been plagued with insanity?_

In desperate attempt to reach her mother, she pulled back the duvet but forgot the feuille, and the floor rushed up to meet her. The pain was forgotten as a result of the adrenaline pumping through her veins, but the loud thump unceremoniously replaced the noise of her rapid heartbeats in her ears, and impulsively she groaned as she silently reprimanded herself for her clumsiness. Using her small bedside table to hoist herself up off the mocking ground, she weakly pulled herself up to her respectable height, a faint blush on her cheeks.

Still cursing her unevenness, her eyes skidded past the parchment on the table, her name intricately inked onto the paper. Steadying herself with one hand, she used her other to pick up the envelope and studied it. Hesitantly, almost reluctantly, she turned the untrusting paper around to scratch off the red blotch of wax shaped like a skull and raggedly pulled the fruit of the one-sided conversation out of its shell:

_Dear Marguerite_

_I trust that you are having a speedy recovery, and would like to inform of my assurance that such an incident will not be repeated upon you or any of your troupe. The matter has been dealt with and the bouffon tromper will not be as clumsy again._

_I hope to see back on the stage very soon and wish you the best of charm for your upcoming performance of Jeanne d'Arc. Practice hard, Madamosielle Giry and do not squander your talent with the excuse of injury; I will not permit such action in my Opéra._

_I am forever your obedient servant_

_O.G._

Pain..lots of pain; the letter tore at her empty-feeling soul: talent…practice…performance? Anguish and fear left proverbial bullet holes in her already aching chest, her eyes practically popping out from her sockets: she had no remembrance of her gift and skill. The jitty mind in her skull leapt and produced a headache; uncontrollable jolts racked her body and left the note on the floor and her on her toes, alert and trying to rekindle her grace…but to no avail. Her feet danced with each other in the clumsiest fashion and her arms flailed as if she were drowning. No rhythm graced her flesh, no timing filled out her stance: imperfection of a once perfection.

Breathe quickened, pulse racing, feet banging across the wooden floor boards, a hurting Meg rushed around the room looking for the camouflaged door. She was trapped: mentally and physically unable to escape a boxing prison. Imagined fists beat at her bones and eventually left her throbbing on the floor, breathe clipped and short, with popping eyes full of unshed tears. Some gracious spirit felt pity on her aching soul and gently pulled a blanket of unconsciousness over her and left her there until gasps lead her mother to her.


	2. Chapter 2

_**AN: **_Bonjour all you dizzy dreamers! Thank you for such great response to the first part of this story; I owe gratitude to all the people who followed this story and to my three reviewers:

**MissFiyerabaMeponineWholock **: Thank you for your 'Quick French Assistance Manual Guide'! It helped, and I hope to communicate further with you throughout this fiction. Your compliments made me rather happy, and for that I say Thanks again.

**ElsaFrozen **: I have updated! - I do beg your pardon that it took so long though...

**RedDeathLvr **: I am glad that you enjoy the story (so far) and I appreciate your compliment *tnaw no stawph, I blushie

I'm sorry if my writing seems to have deteriorated; it isn't intentional and I promise you it will improve. Thanks for reading!

Dreaming was strange: black and white swirls floated across a red backdrop. Blood-stained ballet shoes danced across a wooden stage to the sound of an organ, and stone angels floated above snapped strings. In the midst of all the rope and intertwined spirals of thought, there was a girl with a long blonde crop who swatted clumsily with her feet across the stage. She was certain she was swimming through water as she reached out constantly to catch her shoes, but to no avail – the air was too thick to move in.

The more she grabbed at nothing, the more the shoes danced teasingly around her head. Walls cracked, gold paint pealed from the gargoyles upholding the view boxes and a throaty laugh reverberated around her hallucinations. The ribbons in her hair slid around her throat and pulled taught whilst her shoes slipped onto her feet to continue dancing. She gagged and spluttered but no sounds came out, and all she could do was dance. _This is my insanity…_

Breathe tore out Marguerite's compressed lungs and she involuntarily called out for her Maman. In an instant, Antoinette was beside her emotionally traumatized daughter, with a comforting arm placed around her shoulders and a damp cloth laid across her heated forehead. She cooed and shushed at her daughter until her laboured breathing slowed down to trotting-pace. Her sight was restricted to a peripheral box, so all the girl managed to see was the strands of her own hair set up upon a backdrop made of blurry figures dressed in white chemise.

"Here," a chocolate voice presented a milky hand that held in its grasp a glass of water. Greedily, Meg snatched at it and gulped down the cool liquid without remorse; relief swam through her being and stretched into her soul as the stitch in her head loosened. _This _was bliss, and all she wanted to do was to curl up and be swaddled in it. When she decided she could manage vision, the cramped girl opened her eyes to the reality before her.

With the return of her sight, physical touch connected to self-recorded feeling and emotions swam around her pulsing head. Then came the pain…excruciating and unmistakable in her left ankle as well as her left-part diaphragm; Meg battled with her own tendency of extrapolation and she tried to her best not to build up anymore anxiety. The entire troupe had gathered around her bed and her Maman was holding her like she had when she was a babe, however she still croaked out what seemed to her like the most coherent and expected questions about why she couldn't move her arms in perfect arcs, or where her unanswered conversation was.

"Marguerite, you need your rest." Why did Antoinette sound so serious? Could she not see how her own flesh and blood was struggling for answers to questions she clearly fought with, didn't she want to help? Meg unaccountably huffs at her mother and unnecessary anger bubbled through her usually apple-white flesh, turning her into a proverbial Pink Lady. And, yes, while the shade was light and could be easily mistaken for the flush of illness, the ballet concierge knew her own. After her incredulity fades enough to be cloaked, the Madame stands with authority and fixes her rats with a stern as stone expression, "To bed, girls, now. Time is tight and so will be your training – I expect your presence tomorrow at exactly 6 o' clock. And _don't_ make me send an invitation."

"Oui, Madame." There is unquestionable response from the troupe as they move to make for a short sleep. Even with such strict instruction though, the girls almost always procrastinate and only find themselves subdued into slumber an odd half hour after the word for bed is given. Joseph Buquet, the unofficially identified drunk storyteller, knew this, and so did the Madame. So upon returning her gaze to her daughter, Antoinette regarded Meg with motherly firmness; "A word, Marguerite," she whirls with the grace of a Prima Ballerina to glance sparsely at the milk chocolate nymph that had given Meg the water, "Christine will help you up." With that, she sweeps herself primely out of the dormitory, leaving her swishing black simpleton's gown to dust up her trail as if she were the very namesake of _Maria _Antoinette herself.

Christine flows with that same grace towards an enviously brooding Meg, her face glowing with resignation as well as wistfulness, and she smiles at her confusedly angered friend before she lifts her from under her arms and guides her to the door which Antoinette had prior exited. So sudden then was the arm that snatched out of the hallway darkness at the already confused girl, and harsh is the voice that chastises her about manners and poor show.

But for all it is worth, Meg cannot bring herself to admit that she fell not from physical injury repercussions, but rather because of the letter which appears to be misplaced. Envy turns to mistrust as she glances through her glower at the girl, Christine as it were, who stands as still as a soldier but as meek as an angel who is there to support, and Meg cannot help but wonder…

All at once Christine is dismissed, and then two upset Giry ballerinas stand briskly in the hallway, one standing with power, the only leaning sublimely against the wooden walls that make up the back area of the Opera. A paper flutters past Meg's face and she recognises the watermarked intricacies of the ink on the other side: Her letter. "I know because of the accident you have drawn quite the bit of attention to yourself, Marguerite, but for your own sake _ne pas encourager cette._" It is all the girl can do not to grind her teeth and start quivering her chin from emotion, so only a nod presents acknowledging gesture to Antoinette. "_Bon_, I will not see you tomorrow on the practise stage, under the doctor's instructions, but you are not so weak that you cannot help elsewhere within these great halls. Upon the upcoming week's Thursday you are expected to return to your normal routine practise, _bien?_"

Another nod. A kiss on the forehead and then Meg stands alone. 9 days was all she had to relearn what she already knew and rekindle her soul. Ballet is her life and it is something no one else could take away, and of that she was sure, but how was she supposed to fight herself for something that is her all being? Realisation breaks at her skull and sinks down on her flesh: nobody else can help find something that isn't lost to them; only she can aid herself in _re_findingwhat is already inside.

Not her Mother, not Christine, and certainly not this estranged Opera Ghost – Meg truly stands cold and alone.


End file.
